


Sensitivity

by Kenjiandco



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Sex, Case Fic, Finger Sucking, First Time, Getting Together, Hand & Finger Kink, Hankcon Valentines Exchange, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Oblivious Connor (Detroit: Become Human), androids have erogenous zones in unexpected places, self lubricating androids, thank god you're alive sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-02-09 16:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18641887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenjiandco/pseuds/Kenjiandco
Summary: But what he’d learned since then was that there was just no way to brace himself for Connor being Connor.For questions that spun out of his insatiable curiosity combined with a complete lack of boundaries (“Why is lipstick that color considered fashionable? Lips that color would be indicative of serious medical problems.” “I understand the purpose of testicles, but why do they look like that?” “Take it up with evolution, kid.”)For how he’d scan Hank at the end of a long day and frown at what he saw. For the long fingered hand pressing itself against a tense muscle, heated well past the human norm, for the way he’d smile when Hank relaxed into the touch, long lashes dipping low over his eyes...and the low electric buzz that built up under his skin at Connor’s touch, and lingered long after he took his hand away.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A Hankcon Valentines day pinch - hit for noire00123 on Tumblr - happy belated valentines day! Ch 2 should be up soon.

It’s been eight months since the Android Revolution, and Hank Anderson is fairly certain he’s losing his mind. Being tortured, continuously, subtly,  _ unendingly,  _ every day edging him a little closer to the edge of total, irrevocable oblivion.

And the worst part is, he’s pretty sure Connor doesn’t even know he’s doing it. 

Of course, his torment is at least partially self inflicted, what with the bringing Connor home to live with him. Maybe that wasn’t a decision that should have been made on an impulse, but...fuck, what was the alternative? When he was standing in front of the closed down Chicken Feed, ears burning from the wind and eyes burning from...something else entirely, and feeling Connor shiver in his embrace even though androids didn’t feel cold. When he’d asked Connor where he was staying (hating that he’d never thought to ask before,) and Connor replied that he had a  _ charging port  _ at Cyberlife...what could he have possibly said, other than  _ Fuck that. C’mon.  _

And so he’d set himself up with a front row seat for Connor’s slow, tentative exploration of his newfound freedom, and most of the time he wouldn’t trade it for the world. It’d been something of a relief to learn that this new Connor, Deviant Connor, the hero, the shepherd, the right hand of the Revolution...was still in many ways the same weird little thing he’d always been, the same raspy voiced, boggle-eyed puppy who had always seemed to think a little too long, tease just a little too much,  _ feel  _ just a little too hard, even when every other sentence out of his mouth had been quoting some sort of Cyberlife propaganda. Still the Connor who’d perch on the edge of his desk or the corner of a counter even when there were perfectly good chairs available, who ragged him about the sodium content of his meals and made vaguely horrified faces at his taste in shirts, and would dart across busy streets and hop fences to pet a dog. Still Connor...still, on the rare occasions he allowed the phrase to enter his mind...still  _ his  _ Connor. 

He’d known. He’d known on some level what he was getting into. He wasn’t  _ blind,  _ even if his libido hadn’t had much to do in the last ten years. He knew what his new roommate looked like (and what his new roommate looked like was so much his type he’d had more th an a few half-crazy urges to go stomping up to Cyberlife and demanding to speak to someone in charge. Whoever that was these days.) 

But what he’d learned since then was that there was just no _way_ to brace himself for Connor being Connor. Built to handle the worst of the worst of humanity, equipped with entire libraries of forensic information at his beck and call. Intellectually, he knew everything there was to know about the human condition, but his odd inexperience, his _innocence,_ and with it his growing humanity, showed itself in the strangest ways, ways that Hank could never be prepared for. For questions that spun out of his insatiable curiosity combined with a complete lack of boundaries (“Why is lipstick that color considered fashionable? _Lips_ that color would be indicative of serious medical problems.” “I understand the _purpose_ of testicles, but why do they look like _that?”_ “Take it up with evolution, kid.”) For how he’d scan Hank at the end of a long day and frown at what he saw. For the long fingered hand pressing itself against a tense muscle, heated well past the human norm, for the way he’d smile when Hank relaxed into the touch, long lashes dipping low over his eyes...and the low electric buzz that built up under his skin at Connor’s touch, and lingered long after he took his hand away. 

At least he’d acquiesced to changing clothes in the bathroom these days, with a vaguely condescending air of amusement for his human’s earthly hangups. It would’ve annoyed Hank more if he hadn’t been devoting every ounce of concentration to diverting blood flow northward again, okay so he was a state of the art investigative prototype - was it strictly necessary to give him an ass like  _ that? _

 

It’s coming to a head, Hank thinks as they slog across the city one particularly oppressive July night. He can’t avoid it forever; sooner or later they had to talk about it all. He should encourage Connor to branch out. Maybe find his own place. Meet new people. New androids. And then Connor would ask  _ why,  _ head tilted like a confused puppy, and Hank would have to either lie to him, which was basically impossible, or try to explain...try to explain his disgusting, dirty old man urges to someone still coming to terms with the human scrotum. Just the thought makes his head pulse with an incipient migraine. 

Or maybe that was the 90% humidity and the 19 hours he’d been at work, he reflects, as their autocab pulls up to a cordon of red and blue lights. Maybe not the best time to wax all philosophical. 

“Are you all right, Lieutenant?” Connor asks softly, as they approached the cordon. Even this far out of the city center, no one asked for their ID. Not since November. “You’ve been at work for a very long time.

Hank waves him off, trying to shake himself back into the present. “I’ll live. This one was too good to miss.” 

Connor shoots him a quick, sidelong smile, red light sliding across his teeth. The light shaves some of the softness off his face, throwing sharp shadows across his features and giving him an  _ edge,  _ one that fits the leather jacket and the white t-shirt he’s taken to wearing these days, because the universe hates Hank and wants him to suffer. “Who can resist a locked room mystery?”

_ Definitely a detective, build for it or not,  _ Hank thinks with a smile, wincing as he ducked under the tape. Who  _ could  _ resist a call like this one? Welfare check called in by worried neighbors, windows locked, deadbolt closed, and the lone occupant of the little semi-D dead in a pool of blood in the middle of the kitchen.

The two of them split up in the crime scene, like they had since the beginning. Connor freezes solid in the doorway, for a fraction of a second, so fast you’d never notice if you weren’t looking for it, and then wanders off in pursuit of whatever prompts his scan kicked up. Hank just follows his nose, meandering aimlessly through the scene. He exchanges nods with a few techs still wrapping up, but no words - they knew his process. The little house has the feel of a bachelor pad. Not squalid, but messy...the bland, utilitarian mess of someone with no time or inclination for housekeeping.

“Victim was unconscious when he was stabbed,” Connor calls out from the other side of the room. Hank nods absently. 

“Yup, or at least sedated.” The lack of visible wounds and the location of the blood pool said he’d been stabbed in the back, probably in the kidneys. Fast, but not painless, and no sign that he’d struggled after he fell. 

“Did he ever own an android?” Connor asks one of the uniforms. He’s standing next to an open refrigerator, surveying several bottles of Thirium in the door. 

“You scanned for blue blood, right?” Hank asks, meandering over. Connor rolls his eyes at him, and Hank raises his hands with a chuckle. “Okay, okay, just asking.” 

Something catches his eye: an ashtray on the counter, empty but for the butt of an old fashioned paper cigarette stubbed out in it. The smell still lingers in the air, oddly sweet - one of those new flavored tobaccos, maybe, but something’s off about it, something pinging his intuition. Hank frowns, dragging his finger through the gray fluff...it’s oddly coarse, gritty against his skin. 

“Connor?”

Connor’s next to him in an instant, eyes locked on the ashtray. “Interesting,” he says, eyelashes fluttering out of synch for a second as he watches Hank rub the gritty, fruity-smelling ash between his fingers. “There’s a nonstandard chemical component in there…” 

And then he grabs Hank’s wrist, and pops his index finger into his mouth. 

Hank sees stars. It...it’s been a  _ long  _ time since...since he’s had anyone’s mouth on him, let alone a mouth that has haunted more than a few guilty, sweat soaked dreams. Connor’s tongue, soft and slick and a little cooler than a human’s, curls around the pad of his finger, and Hank honest to god sways into him, before desperate survival instincts kick in and lock his knees to keep him upright. And...okay, so Hank had always had a…little bit of a...a hand thing, maybe, it’s sending tingles up his arm and down his spine, Connor’s fingertips cool against the soft skin inside his wrist, and--

And Connor releases his hand, LED blinking red as he analyzes. Hank steadies himself against the counter, his own metaphorical LED also spinning frantically. The uniform next to the fridge is definitely hiding a smile. 

“Was that  _ entirely  _ necessary?”

Connor gives him an affronted look. “You contaminated the ashtray. I needed your skin chemistry to compare.” 

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to make his head stop swimming.  “Of course. How unprofessional of me.”

“This cigarette was contaminated,” Connor announces. “Crystalline acetonitrile. Highly concentrated.” 

Hank blinks, and the analytical side of his brain manages to get his libido in a headlock and let him start thinking like a detective again. It’s been a long-ass time since organic chemistry, but when you’re a homicide detective there’s some names that jump out at you. 

“Wait. Nitrile? Doesn’t heating nitriles --”

“Produce cyanide? Why yes it does. And acetonitrile is a solvent used in several common android biocomponents.”

The two detectives exchange a long look, and then they both move in different directions. No words needed; Hank heads for a jacket draped over the back of a kitchen chair and starts digging through the pockets, and Connor drops to his knees, running his fingers along the baseboards of the counter. 

“Paydirt.” Hank reaches into the inner pocket of the cheap blazer and comes up with a rumpled packet of cigarettes. He tosses it to Connor, who immediately tears one open and sprinkles the tobacco on his tongue. 

“More nitrile. More than enough to produce a fatal dose of cyanide.”

Hank pulls out another cigarette and squints at it, examining it closely. He can’t see any obvious signs of tampering: if the entire packet is poisoned, it was done with a lot of care. Which means…

“This was premeditated,” Connor says. “That took planning.”

“Which makes the stabbing overkill,” Hank says, handing the cigarette pack over to one of the techs. The murder was planned, but the violence wasn’t. The violence was impulsive. Angry. Emotional. “Which…” he trails off, meeting Connor’s eyes across the room.

Which makes this case very familiar. It gives it all the hallmarks of an abused deviant pushed too far. Which means...

Hank’s hand goes to his sidearm at the same moment that Connor drops into a crouch, his LED pulsing red. He’s pleased to see the other officers react immediately to the two detectives’ change in mood. He catches the eye of the closest forensic tech and nods towards the door. She nods, face tight, and starts rounding up her crew, quickly and quietly. 

Which means the locked doors aren’t a mystery any more. They’re part of a familiar pattern for this kind of domestic violence. Human attackers tend to run. But androids tend to hide.

“Where haven’t you been yet?” Connor asks the officer in an urgent whisper. “Basement? Attic? Closets?”

“No attic,” she says in the same tone. She doesn’t know where he’s going with it yet, but she’s following his lead.  “Laundry room in the basement, cleared it before you got here. Only two closets, we checked both--”

Connor’s on the move before she finishes the sentence. Hank manages to follow a beat faster than the other cops, but the android’s through the living room and darting down a hallway while the words  _ “Connor Goddammit”  _ are still forming on his tongue. Hank lumbers after him, mind racing in his partner’s wake.  _ Hiding places. Laundry room in the basement.  _

Connor pivots into a musty bedroom, sweeping left to right with a fluid motion of his head, and Hank sees him lock onto a little square door set in one wall, not much wider than a foot across. A laundry chute. 

Hank can’t run fast enough, it feels like he’s trapped in place, like he’s fighting the air around him. It feels like a nightmare, and a nightmare he’s already lived once before: phantom bullets zip past Hank’s ears with the too-vivid whine of a flashback, and for a second it’s not a laundry chute, it’s a shipping container on a frozen rooftop--

And it flies open all the same, gouging chips out of the wall, the android boiling out of their hiding place driven by fury and terror and desperation, the flash of a long kitchen knife dark with drying blood clutched in one hand. 

It all happens too fast for Hank to react, too fast for him to even  _ follow.  _ The slam of the little trapdoor, Connor falling back on his heels as the android flings themself at him, knife raised. Connor gasps, a thick, harsh sound punched out of his artificial lungs, louder in Hank’s ears than anything else. So loud it echos. His hands fly out and the other android drops with a loud electric crackle, head bouncing as it hits the ground. 

And Connor collapses to his knees, fingers curled loosely around the handle of the knife buried in his neck. 

“ _ Connor!” _

There’s a million things he should be doing. Secure the scene, call for backup call for help, check the perp check for evidence, and Hank ignores it all to sprint to Connor’s side. It’s not his first rodeo, not anywhere near the worst one but all his instincts are coming up blank. He’s got a hundred different protocols to follow and they’ve all been overwritten by the one thought that’s seared itself across his mind as he gets his hands on Connor’s shoulders, blue blood slipping under his fingers.

_ I never told him. _

_ “Connor!  _ Connor, fuck, okay, look at me sweetheart, stay with me, we’re gonna get you help--”

“I’m fine, Hank.” Connor sits back on his heels. There’s an odd, electric crackle to his voice, but he doesn’t sound hurt...he sounds...annoyed? His shirt ripped open in the struggle, Thirium drawing glutinous streaks down his pale skin. Connor takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, and tugs the knife out of his neck with a wince. Hank yells something, wordless and panicked, reaching out to press a hand over the wound...which has already closed itself, with a last little trickle of Thirium. 

“I’m fine,” Connor repeats, although his LED is whirling red. He puts his hand over Hank’s on the curve of his neck. “My vital components are in rather different places than a human’s.” He tips his head experimentally side to side with a wince. “Much  _ deeper  _ places, to start with.” 

 

After that, it’s all a little bit of a blurr. More squad cars arrive, and so do the coroners, and a couple of serious faced DPD androids who gather up the unconscious perp and fit a restraining collar to the port in the back of their neck. Dawn begins to gather along the eastern horizon, casting them all in that eerie blue-gray half light that precedes the sunrise. An android EMT looks over Connor and prescribes thirium and a visit to a repair facility to get the tear in his neck glued up. She looks at Hank, leaning against the trunk of a squad car and staring into space as the techs and the coroners close up the scene, and tells him to go the fuck to bed. 

“I called us a cab,” Connor says softly, and Hank startles: he hadn’t even noticed him approach, too busy rubbing his hands together, feeling the clear film of drying Thirium pull against his skin. “We can debrief the Captain in the morning.” There’s still a crackle in his voice, like a badly tuned radio: apparently the knife had clipped something important in there.

Hank stares at him for a wordless second, shirt torn and hair ruffled and bloodstains still blue on his skin where it had pooled the thickest, in the dip of his collarbone and the curve of his shoulder. He looks beat up, and tired, and so,  _ so  _ beautiful. 

Hank mumbles a heartfelt curse, grabs the little android by the back of the neck, and tugs him into his chest. 

Connor stumbles into his arms with a shocked little static squeak, half-human and half-electric and quickly cut off. It takes him a second to remember how to relax, skeletal components unlocking one by one under Hank’s hands as Connor hesitantly wraps his arms around him and leans his head on his shoulder. There’s not much to hide them but the shadows outside the headlights, and Hank could not possibly care less. 

“Thought I’d lost you for a second there,” he says, letting his cheek settle against Connor’s hair. 

“I’m  _ fine, _ Hank,” Connor repeats. He leans back enough to look up into Hank’s face, but Hank doesn’t let him go entirely, and Connor doesn’t try to pull away. “I was built for physical altercations. This is such a silly place to put something so vulnerable…” he touches his fingertips to Hank’s neck, the soft spot over his pulse, and Hank can’t hide the shiver that runs through him at the touch. Connor frowns, and his LED turns yellow: scanning as Hank’s pulse jumps under his fingers.

“Are you alright? Your heart rate is very elevated. And you’re warm.” He steps back a little, searching Hank’s face. “Are you sick? Injured? My scans didn’t detect anything -- has the house been scanned for residual cyanide?” His voice pitches up, the little crackle getting stronger.” You could be--”

“You really don’t know, do you?” Hank says softly. Wonderingly. Connor breaks off, blinking up at him. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

Connor’s mouth ticks up at one corner, the way he does when he’s teasing. “Well, in any other circumstances I’d say you were exhibiting signs of arousal.” His eyes crinkle. “But since it’s me, you’re obviously not--”

Hank’s hands have settled near Connor’s waist, and they tighten, half-involuntary. Connor breaks off, staring up into Hank’s face, and his eyes go very still and very wide. 

“H-hank? You’re--”

“When have your scans ever been wrong, Connor?”

Connor buzzes in the back of his throat, his gaze skipping across Hank’s face, ruffled hair falling in his eyes. His LED is blinking between agitated red...and a bright, deep blue. 

“But you’re a  _ human,”  _ he says, slowly, like he’s trying to tell a child that the sky is blue. “And I’m...I-I’m--”

“Beautiful,” Hank says. He gives into the itching need to brush that stray lock of hair back from Connor’s forehead. Connor shivers, his eyelashes fluttering. “What you are is  _ beautiful.” _

The first rays of the sun break over the horizon, catching in Connor’s eyes and painting the curves of his face in lines of bright, deep gold. His lips part, and he leans into Hank’s touch, so smoothly it almost looks instinctual. 

An autocab pulls up to the curb beside them and opens its rear door with a merry little jingle. Connor blinks, and Hank squeezes him quick around the waist before he nudges him back towards the van. “C’mon,let’s get out of here. We have a lot to talk about.”

As soon as Connor approaches the door, the autocab beeps a warning, interior lights going red. “Unaccompanied androids must ride in the designated compartment,” its cheerful AI voice announces, “unless otherwise authorized by a registered owner.” It flicks a little handprint scanner out of a slot in the door.  “Please present authorization now.” 

Hank draws back a fist and punches the scanner clean off its hinge. The lights go white again. Connor looks scandalized. 

“Save ‘em the upgrade costs,” he mutters, climbing onto the wide bench seat. He tells the cab his address as Connor settles in beside him.

“Please be advised, heavy traffic is expected,” the cab chirps. “Estimated time, one hour and twelve minutes. Expect delays.”

“Whatever.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

Connor’s staring holes in the side of his head as the cab pulls away from the curb and begins making its way through the maze of urban sprawl back to the interstate. Hank hesitates for a second, and then holds out an arm, and Connor smiles and scoots closer, leaning into his side. This at least isn’t totally new; Hank’s couch is small and saggy and it’s not uncommon for them to slump against each other in the evenings, Sumo sprawled out across their laps like a two hundred pound blanket. This time, Hank settles a heavy arm over Connor’s shoulder and pulls him close against his side. He shuts his eyes, trying to record the moment like Connor does, lock it in place with perfect recall.

Connor finds his other hand and pulls it into his lap, tracing his fingers over Hank’s palm like he’s never encountered anything like it before. His touch lingers on the vein in Hank’s wrist, feeling his elevated pulse flutter under the skin.

“This is for me?” he asks, barely more than a whisper. His voice is wondering. Reverent. Hank flips his hand over, and Connor lets him lace their fingers together. 

“Why’s that so hard for you to believe?” Hank rumbles. Connor looks up at him, furrowed eyebrows drawing harsh lines across his normally smooth face. 

“I’m an android,” he says simply, and blushes blue when Hank raises his eyebrows. They’ve both been to the Eden Club, after all. “I’m not  _ that kind  _ of android. And  _ you’re  _ not that kind of human. Even when you said you hated androids, you never treated me like a...a product. Just like I was annoying.” Hank chuckles ruefully. “You just treated me like…”

“Like a person?” Hank asks, and Connor’s LED blinks blue. 

Hank shifts a little on the bench, turning to make it easier to look down into Connor’s face. “This was supposed to be a really different conversation,” he says with a sigh. There’s a part of him that’s waiting for the moment Connor comes to his senses, untangles their fingers and pushes his arm off and tells the cab to let him out--but Connor’s still here, still leaning into his side, still tracing his thumb idly up and down the inside of Hank’s wrist. “I was gonna tell you to branch out. Go find someone else, someone closer to your own age--”

“Eleven months?” Connor says with a smirk. 

“ _ Not  _ helping Connor. Fine, someone more like you. Another pretty android to figure all this out with.”

Connor just watches him thoughtfully for a second, LED stuttering as he considers. “So what changed?”

_ I never got to tell him,  _ Hank thinks, and for a second he’s right back there in that dusty bedroom, thinking he’s about to watch Connor bleed out on the floor. He frees his hand, gently, and runs his palm up Connor’s arm to cup his face. He’s flying blind now, well past the point of caution or restraint. 

“I thought I’d lost you, back there,” he murmurs, letting his thumb settle at the corner of Connor’s lips. “And I don’t think I can handle losing you to somebody else, either.” He doesn’t mean to let his voice deepen, but the words come out as a growl. Connor’s lashes flutter, and he touches the back of Hank’s hand where it rests on his cheek.

“Hank…”

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” Hank rumbles. “Okay?”

“O-okay.”

It starts out slow and gentle, and Hank really,  _ really  _ meant to keep it that way...but gentle doesn’t last. Not when Connor gasps against his lips, something deep in his chest whirring into overdrive. Not when his shaking fingers find their way into Hank’s hair, when his lips part and he trembles as Hank’s tongue sweeps his mouth. Not when he’s been trying for  _ months  _ to resist this, to tell himself it was something he didn’t get to have, something he didn’t deserve. Not when he finally,  _ finally  _ has Connor in his arms. 

There’s a part of Hank afraid he’s pushing it, that Connor’s confused, that he doesn’t know what he’s getting into or how to say he doesn’t want it. But when Hank pulls back to breath Connor chases his lips for more kisses, with a little electric trill in the back of his throat that’s almost a whimper. He leans into Hank, lips parted and eyes unfocused, so mindblown his eyelids move a little out of sync when he blinks. Behind him, the autocab’s little screen flashes up a cheerful reminder that horseplay is discouraged in Detroit Area Automatic Taxis, and that their projected drive time is now one hour and fifty three minutes. 

“C’mere,” Hank murmurs, runs his palms firm and heavy down Connor’s sides to curl around his narrow hips that fit so perfectly into the broad spread of his hands. He nudges Connor up gently, trying to get him to swing a leg over Hank’s thighs and settle into his lap. Connor hesitates, but out of confusion, not reluctance, glassy eyes furrowing as he tries to follow Hank’s lead. He turns himself around, long legs awkward in the confined space, and ends up perched a little awkwardly between Hank’s legs, back to chest. 

“I-is this what you wanted?” he asks, soft and uncertain, leaning his head back over Hank’s shoulder to peer up at his face. Hank chuckles, nuzzling into the hair above his temple. 

“Not exactly. But--” he settles a hand at the base of Connor’s throat and runs it slowly down the slope of his chest, brushing aside his ripped shirt to spread his fingers across the soft ripples of Connor’s taut belly, watching the touch draw his whole body tight like a bowstring, “my  _ God  _ is it hard to say no to.” Connor makes that trilling noise again, something like a whine and something like a purr and nothing like a human, it’s all  _ Connor  _ and Hank just wants to fucking drown in it. He bends his head to mouth down Connor’s neck, tasting his skin, and tasting the cool plastic and rubber beneath when Connor’s skin shimmers blue and draws back around his lips, and Connor jolts and trembles in his arms. 

“ _ Sensitive,”  _ he purrs, raising his head. Connor’s nanoskin begins to draw back in, but Hank presses a thumb to the smooth white spot at the base of his neck and the shimmering border halts where it is, teasing against the edges of his finger. “You  _ like  _ that, huh baby?”

“ _ H-hank--”  _ Connor squirms against him, lips barely moving and static breaking through his name. His skin’s glitching all across his neck and torso, fading out in spots that Hank chases with his lips, spreading his fingers across Connor’s hitching hips and guiding his sporadic movements into something more like a rhythm, pulling his ass back into the hard line of Hank’s cock straining against his jeans. There’s hardly any give to him: even where his synthetic muscles need to bend and flex Connor’s all smooth, hard polymer. Hank’s never felt anything quite like it, and he doesn’t think he ever wants to feel anything else again. 

He tightens his grip on Connor’s waist and lets his hips rock up, giving into the temptation to grind up hard against the writhing android in his lap. Connor’s lips fall open around another burst of static, and he reaches down to clutch Hank’s hand in both of his, holding on like an anchor. Hank chuckles and holds him closer, petting down Connor’s chest as the little android starts to find his way into a rhythm and  _ fuck  _ the view is incredible, Connor spread out against Hank’s chest, all his muscles working, tensing and ticking with pleasure. Pleasure no one else has ever made him feel before.

Pleasure he responds to just a little differently than a human. Connor hums and smiles when Hank pinches experimentally at his nipples...but stroking his thumb down the side of Connor's long fingers has the android gasping and jolting, skin flowing away under Hank's touch. He barely seems to notice Hank’s hands on his hips or fingers skating up the inside of his thigh, but when Hank leans over to catch his lips in a kiss and twines their tongues together, his whole body shudders. 

“That good, huh?” Hank purrs when he pulls away. Connor stares up at him, eyes glassy, panting out little puffs of overheated air against Hank’s cheek. 

“Th-The sensors in my - mm - my f-fingers and my-  _ ah  _ \- t-tongue,” Connor stutters, eyelashes fluttering as Hank gently pinches the webbing between his thumb and forefinger and begins rubbing it in tight little circles. “They’re v-v-very  _ hh  _ very... _ responsive…” _

“You don’t say.” There’s an obvious bulge in Connor’s jeans, and even a dark, wet patch starting to spread at the tip - striving for realism in all things, wasn’t that the old Cyberlife motto - but for the moment Hank’s less interested in that than he is in the way Connor’s voice jerks and crackles every time he presses harder against his fingers. “Then I’d love to see ‘em  _ respond  _ to this--” He brings their entwined hands up to his face, and pops two of Connor’s fingers into his mouth. The  _ response,  _ as Connor termed it, is  _ instantaneous. _

_ “F-fuck!”  _ Connor rasps, arching hard, honest-to-god  _ sparks,  _ little blue sparks, skip across his teeth as his mouth drops open around the desperate curse. Hank moans around his fingers, he can’t help it, he’s never heard the android swear like that, not like  _ that,  _ his voice heavy with shock and want and desperation. The vibrations make Connor shudder, hips pulsing. His fingers scrabble at Hank’s free hand, still clenched tight around his hipbone. A third finger finds its way past his lips and Hank molds his tongue around them, sucking gently. Connor’s fingers are cool and smooth and taste nothing at all like a human and he can’t get enough. And neither, it seems, can Connor: his head drops back against Hank’s shoulder, eyes wide as he gasps his name, tangled up with a litany of curses and static.

“Hank,  _ H-hank, I, Hank HankHank fffuck--” _

His voice cuts off, Hank feels synthetic muscles lock under his flickering skin, pulled tight against Hank’s chest and every curl of Hank’s tongue punches more of those statickly little moans out of Connor’s heaving chest. And then he goes boneless, collapsing in a heavy heap, twitching under Hank’s hands as the damp spot spreads across his groin. He blinks, slow and heavy.

“Oh.  _ Oh.” _

“ _ Jesus,  _ Connor.” Hank urges him up, trying to bodily flip him around, and this time Connor manages to meet him halfway, spreading his thighs over Hank’s lap in time to catch the bruising kiss Hank presses to his lips. “Was - did you --”

“It would appear so,” Connor says. He sounds dazed, leaning his forehead against Hank’s blinking down at himself. “I had not...not  _ explored  _ that particular function.”

Hank manages to swallow down a growl in favor of kissing him again, trying not to feel guilty about the pure elemental rush of  _ desire  _ that fact sends shooting down his spine. His first, he’s Connor’s  _ first,  _ Connor’s  _ only,  _ the only person to ever make him feel that,  _ fuck… _

And Connor’s starting to move against him again, even though he just came, swaying forward as Hank pets down his sides, curls his fingers around that goddamn ass--

His fingers find wetness there too, and Hank breaks the kiss and pulls them away with a grunt of surprise, examining the shiny fluid on his fingertips. 

“Connor, you--” 

“I-it’s a function of...of arousal,” Connor says, swaying forward as Hank palms his ass again. The movement presses his clothed erection into Hank’s belly, already hard again. “H-hank, I-- _ ah!” _

Hank cups one hand against Connor’s cheek, holds his gaze as he lets his fingers dip deeper between his legs, rubbing up hard against the space behind his leaking cock, twitching in his pants as Hank teases him. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, skating a thumb across Connor’s parted lips. “Ready to go again already?” He cups his palm against Connor’s arousal, pressing firm, and Connor moans and presses into it, shuddering.

“H-hank, I- I feel, I want-- _ fuck!”  _ Connor swears as Hank pops the button of his jeans one-handed, teases the tips of his fingers under the waistband of his tight black shorts. 

“Tell me what you want, baby.” Connor’s cock is cool like the rest of him, velvety-soft and slick with his first release. He shudders at the words, and Hank rubs a thumb over his fingers again, squeezing his hand til Connor’s eyes flutter open again.

“ _ You, _ ” he gasps, the tang of electricity on his breath. “ _ Y-you, more, closer, I want, H-hank, I need--” _

“Want to feel me inside you?” Hank slips his hand down the back of Connor’s pants, pulling him closer with a handful of ass. Connor shudders, and he feels a new trickle of warm wetness against his fingers. “ _ Fuck,  _ Connor. Want me to fill you up? Take you right here in the back of this cab?”

Connor surges up to kiss him,  _ hard,  _ letting out a desperate buzz into Hank’s mouth as he helps shove his pants down. His fingers find the source of that wetness and Connor freezes, head falling back as Hank circles it with a fingertip. Connor rocks weakly, torn between pushing back into his hands and squirming away, white fingers clutching at Hank’s shoulders. 

“ _ H-hank-” _

“Hey.” Hank forces himself to take a deep breath, calm his roaring blood long enough to meet Connor’s eyes. He touches his cheek gently, waiting for Connor to look at him. “If it hurts, or if you need to slow down,  _ tell  _ me, okay?” He remembers who he’s talking to and smirks. “Or yannow. Just rip my arm off and beat me to death with it.”

Connor buzzes a laugh, his yellow LED flickering blue. He runs his palms down Hank’s chest, playing with his shirt buttons. “Thank you. I don’t think i will be needing any of those options, but thank you.  _ Please  _ don’t make me wait anymore.” 

“You. Are going to be the death of me,” Hank predicts, threading his fingers through Connor’s hair, and Connor manages to rip his shirt open before their lips meet. 

There’s almost no resistance when Hank’s finger breaches Connor’s entrance, although Connor gasps and tilts his head, letting Hank fuck his tongue deeper into his mouth.  He takes a second finger with barely a shiver, slick walls clenching around him, warm and silky in a way that makes Hank’s neglected cock pulse with need. Connor moans low in his chest when Hank scissors his fingers, beads of slightly pearlescent precome rolling down his pale, pretty cock as his body opens up  _ so  _ beautifully under Hank’s touch.

Connor clutches at his shoulders, panting overheated breaths against Hank’s lips. He moves tentatively, shakily, rocking back onto Hank’s fingers, which already move effortlessly, gliding through his warm lubrication. He probably doesn’t even need the prep, taking Hank’s fingers like he is, but Hank’s not about to take the risk even if his cock is straining against his jeans, desperate for more. 

And it seems like Connor’s right there with him, thank the fucking Gods - he reaches back, long fingers palming tentatively at Hank’s crotch as he meets his gaze with hazy eyes. 

“Hank, please, I...I need...I want…” he squeezes, gently, and Hank moans against his ear. He pulls his fingers out, feeling the little shudder that runs down Connor’s spine as his body tries to clench around nothing, and reaches down to help Connor with his fly. “ _ I want you in me.” _

His voice drops, husky and erotic and  _ sexy as hell... _ but it makes Hank hesitate.  _ A function of arousal,  _ he’d said. A function he’d been programmed for - someone had to give him that, program his processors with the ability to have sex, respond to the stimulus, feel arousal…

Connor’s not a slave to his processors any more, hasn’t been for a long time, long before he smashed through that red wall he tried to describe to Hank one late, rainy night. But every now and again something catches him off guard, some old programmed response that rears its head before he can get a handle on it. And for a horrible second, Hank can’t stop  _ himself  _ from wondering what he’s been kissing in the back of this cab: is it Connor, or is it Connor’s subroutines? Just a  _ function of arousal,  _ responding for him. 

A second later, fortunately, Connor puts his mind at ease. He fumbles Hank’s cock out of his pants, and then rocks back on his heels and just... _ stares,  _ a low buzz of static emanating from his open mouth. He looks goofy as hell and Hank’s instantly, wonderfully certain that no one in their right mind would build  _ that  _ reaction into an android. He laughs low in his chest and Connor snaps his mouth shut and glares at him, the blue blush across his cheeks shading darker. The glare doesn’t last long, his liquid eyes drawn back to Hank’s cock like they’re magnetized. He traces a cool white fingertip reverentially up the thick shaft, and Hank just barely manages to stop himself from trembling like a fucking teenager - it’s been a long-ass time okay, and he wasn’t exactly expecting to break his streak at the age of 54 with a guy who looks like  _ Connor.  _ To say nothing of what the wonder-struck look on Connor’s face is doing for his ego. It draws another gentle laugh out of him, and a confident smirk he hasn’t worn in a long time that still feels good on his face. 

“Never seen one like it, huh kid?”

“I’ve never seen one at all,” Connor says, his voice still a raspy whisper, and the thought has Hank’s hips twitching up against the weight of the android in his lap, biting his lip around a slightly guilty moan. “Unless you count cadavers, in which case--”

“Please don’t,” Hank moans for an entirely different reason, dragging a hand down his sweaty face. Yeah, that’s definitely his Connor. His weird,  _ weird  _ Connor. Who scoops up the precome running beading in Hank’s slit and presses his fingers to his tongue, eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly out of synch. He moans, muffled around his own fingers, hot and real and filthy as hell ‘cause it seems like every once in awhile the universe actually  _ does  _ love Hank Anderson. 

“Y-yeah. Yes.” Connor says, managing to sound decisive even though it comes out broken around another static buzz. “I need that.” He rises up on his knees, swaying a little as the cab lurches forward in the stop and go traffic, and their fingers tangle around Hank’s cock as he reaches down to steady himself, lining up as best he can. Connor braces a hand against his chest, curling his fingers in the open collar of his shirt, and Hank cups a hand around the back of his neck, rubbing a thumb in soothing little circles under his ear. 

“Take it slow, okay? Slow as you need -  _ fuck!”  _

Connor takes him to the hilt in one movement, a smooth determined drop that punches the air straight out of Hank’s lungs. His hips snap up instinctively, grinding him deep into Connor, who arches like a bowstring, something whirring inside his chest. 

“Fucking  _ christ  _ Connor, I said  _ slow--” _

_ “ _ You said...slow...as I  _ need.”  _ Connor curls over him, his gasping breaths against Hank’s skin steaming hot, almost hot enough to burn as his body tries to vent the building heat. “I don’t  _ need  _ slow,  Hank.”

“Well thank God for that,” Hank mumbles, and he catches Connor’s lips in a quick, filthy kiss before he grabs both hips and slams him down hard. Connor’s mouth drops open around a garbled moan, skin flowing away under Hank’s hands as he brings him down to meet every thrust. His fingers find the soft polymers filling the seams around his joints, and Connor shakes against him as he digs his nails into them, gasping out incredible, cut-off little moans with every breath. 

His muscles start burning almost immediately, settling in deep across his thighs with every stinging slap against Connor’s inhumanly hard body. Connor moves like he’s wild for it but can’t find the rhythm, writhing in Hank’s lap every time Hank grinds him down but never quite matching his movements. He feels incredible, clenching Hank tight, wet and silky and hotter than a human but they’re both chasing a peak that keeps slipping away. Hank tries to angle him (but he’s  _ heavy,  _ much heavier than a human man his size), tries to fuck up deep, aiming for...shit, do male-assigned androids even  _ have  _ a prostate? He can see his own frustration mirrored in Connor’s clenching jaw and furrowed eyebrows, reaching for something he  _ needs  _ but can’t  _ find,  _ their movements burning hot with desperation but unpracticed and out of synch. 

“Change of plans,” Hank growls, pulling Connor up and off his dick. There’s no  _ way  _ his wild little android’s first time is going to be some mediocre affair that ends in a defeated handjob; bad enough that Hank’s fucking him in the back of a cab in a traffic jam, not in bed like he deserves, spread out against the sheets,  _ focus  _ Anderson. Connor whines at the loss when Hank pulls out, but he gasps and honest to god  _ giggles  _ when Hank spins him around and throws him forward. He catches himself on his elbows, propped up on the cheap pleather seat, and the look he shoots Hank through the hair falling in his eyes is pure, mindblown happiness, smiling with lips stained pink and moist by his overheated breath. Hank takes the opportunity to strip Connor’s torn shirt off his back, ripping it the rest of the way open down the front with a growl that sounds a little crazed even in his own ears. And then he wraps an arm tight around Connor’s narrow waist and slams himself into the hilt. 

Both of them moan in unison, Connor’s mostly a high pitched scratch of static as Hank finds one of his hands and laces their fingers together, his belly settling perfectly into the arch of Connor’s bared back. His skin pulls back under Hank’s palm and he lets out another static moan as Hank scratches his thumbnail across the exposed seams, setting up a punishing pace that sends Connor jolting forward until he gets his other hand braced against the door. 

“Oh  _ fuck yes,”  _ Hank gasps in Connor’s ear, sweat beading everywhere his skin presses against Connor’s hot form beneath him, making their movements smooth and slick. Like this he can control the pace, control their movements, not half pinned down by Connor’s weight on his lap. He can guide his little android, show him how it’s done. Like this, he can fuck Connor like he  _ means  _ it, give into the driving, demanding pressure building in his gut. 

The autocab’s screen lights up, and its plaintive little voice reminds them that horseplay and sexual activity is strictly against policy of Detroit Area Automatic Taxis, and the cab reserves the right to terminate the fare at the nearest safe location -- and then Connor  _ snarls,  _ blue sparks popping across his teeth as he slams a white hand against the screen. The cabin’s interior lights flicker around them, and then the screen lights up and the little voice comes back, a little garbled, to thank them for their cooperation and inform them that explecfled translert time is now thirty frog mimics. 

Hank has to laugh, letting his pounding pace relax to a slow, deep grind that has Connor shivering against him. “That good, huh?” he rumbles in the android’s ear, and that gets him a shaking whine. Connor squirms on his knees, trying to work his hips back for more, synthetic muscles bunching against Hank’s skin.

“H-hank--!”

He’s gonna get  _ addicted  _ to hearing his name like that, his name on Connor’s lips, broken around his needy gasps and moans, it’s better than any drug he’s ever tried. 

“I got you baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of Connor’s ear, and adjusts his hold on the little android so he can palm at Connor’s leaking cock, pressing it up against his belly. “Come on, we’re gonna get you there.” 

Connor  _ keens,  _ rutting desperately against Hank’s palm. His fingertips are leaving cracks in the door in front of him as he grinds himself back, still looking for more, and Hank can’t  _ fucking  _ hold it back anymore.  He plants one foot on the floor for leverage and fucks into Connor with everything he’s got, mouthing down the curve of his throat as Connor arches into him, head falling back over Hank’s shoulder. He tastes like rubber and plastic, like traces of Hank’s own sweat and the bitter chemical tang of drying thirium when Hank find the closed knife wound in his throat, it should be disgusting and he never wants to taste anything else. 

“You’re... _ mine…”  _ Hank pants into Connor’s hair, voice hitching with the rhythm of his thrusts. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the knife wound, thirium stinging where his dry lips are cracked.  Connor gasps, nods frantically, head tipped to the side to give him more room. “You hear me?  _ Mine,  _ Connor.”

Connor’s finally found the rhythm, moving with it as Hank fucks him and driving himself back to meet it, and Hank’s climbing hard and fast but it seems like Connor’s struggling. He shakes his head, eyes clenched shut and teeth digging into his lower lip, his LED flickering red-blue-red-blue-red in the corner of Hank’s eye even as he shivers at the drag of Hank inside him, and his fingers against the head of his cock. Maybe he’s tired, or a little scrambled from coming once already...or maybe what he needs to get there is a little different than the partners Hank’s been used to…

Hank remembers the way Connor reacted to kisses, the way the brush of a tongue turned him into a shivering mess, and grins against the android’s temple. He manages to switch hands without losing too much balance, shifting more weight to his foot on the floor so he can keep one hand twined with Connor’s...and press two fingers of the other to Connor’s mouth, slicking his own clear precome across his lips. Connor lets out a shuddering moan that Hank feels all the way down in his fucking  _ dick  _ buried in Connor’s heat, and the android parts his lips to pull Hank’s fingers into his mouth, spitting a muffled, desperate curse around them. 

Hank sinks his teeth into the curve of Connor’s shoulder and drives into him with everything he has, fucking his fingers into Connor’s mouth in time with his thrusts, skating over Connor’s sensitive tongue. His moans have devolved into a constant buzz somewhere at the base of his throat, pitching up as Connor moves faster, looser, he’s lost some of that straining desperation as they heave together, both of them climbing towards the edge of the cliff. Hank can’t free a hand to reach for Connor’s cock again, but it’s obvious now that Connor doesn’t need him to. It’s an afterthought anyway, an addendum, far less sensitive than the billion synthetic nerve endings threaded through his mouth, sparking at the pressure of Hank’s fingers on his tongue. 

With his last coherent thought Hank turns his wrist, forcing Connor’s jaw to drop open wider so he can fit his thumb in his mouth, pinch Connor’s tongue between his fingers as Connor throws his head back to let him in deeper. Those errant sparks crackle across his face again, in his mouth and behind his eyes and the little tear in his neck, earthing themselves in Hank’s skin with little stings that drive him straight to the edge. It’s  _ building  _ deep in his gut, a pressure hotter and harder than anything he’s felt in decades and it feels like Connor’s right there with him, hips working, losing the rhythm of Hank’s movements as he chases his own high, gasping out muffled little whimpers around Hank’s fingers, universal noises that mean  _ don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop.  _ Hank’s rhythm stutters and he drops a hand to Connor’s hip, pulls him back and  _ holds  _ him there as he slams in one last time, grinding deep as his cock pulses in Connor’s silky heat. He crooks his fingers in Connor’s mouth, rubbing them in tight, demanding little circles at the base of his tongue, and it’s the sound of Connor choking out his name as he comes, muffled by Hank’s fingers, that tips him over the edge, losing himself to the rush of release as Connor’s body shudders apart around him and under him.

 

By the time Connor’s finished rebooting, the autocab’s pulled off the unholy mess of the interstate and is winding its way through the back streets near Hank’s house, and Hank’s well and truly started to panic. When Connor’s LED finally circles its way back to blue and his eyes flutter open, it takes every drop of willpower in Hank’s fucked out brain not to pounce on him immediately, ask if he’s okay and cling to him and beg forgiveness. He manages to resist, and it’s a good fucking thing he does, because he gets to watch as Connor’s eyes focus and he  _ smiles,  _ goofy and crooked and blissed out and the easiest, realest smile Hank’s ever seen on his face, and some of the anxiety eases. What can he do but smile back?

“Well hi. Is that whole shutting down thing...uh...is that normal?”

Connor hums and levers himself up, LED spiraling yellow as he tucks himself back into his thoroughly debauched pants and fishes his crumpled jacket off the floor. 

“Well, according to general discussion on the android intranet, rebooting as a result of sex is rather unusual. It does, however, seem to be highly  _ desirable  _ among my compatriots. 

Hank blinks as he digests this, and then flops back against the seat with a lazy grin. He holds out an arm, and Connor flushes blue and cuddles into his side, not bothering with his ripped shirt or his jacket just yet. 

“Not bad for a washed up old eccentric, huh?”

That gets him an earful about relative solve rates and work productivity and the life expectancy of adult males in 2039 America, which lasts until the beleaguered cab pulls to a stop at Hank’s front door and unceremoniously flings both doors open. The sun’s just barely cleared the horizon, streaming early summer light through the trees. 

“Hey.” Hank puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder, stopping him in the shadows under the porch. “Connor, what I said about...all that  _ you’re mine _ bullshit...that was just heat of the moment stuff, okay? It’s not...I didn’t mean…” he trails off under Connor’s quizzical, unblinking gaze.

“Well, legally speaking you can no longer own me as property,” he says eventually, like he’s quoting case law to some DPD lawyer. “So I’m well aware  _ that  _ is not what you meant.” He cocks his head, an almost imperceptible smile playing at his lips. “Does being yours mean you intend to limit my autonomy? Insist I go back to following your instructions?”

Hank snorts. “When did you  _ ever--” _

“Does being yours mean we do  _ that  _ again?” Connor raises his hands to Hank’s chest, skin pulling back as he sets his fingertips against his collarbones. He’s still running a little warm. 

“If you want to,” Hank says softly, covering Connor’s hands with his own.

“And  _ only  _ with me.” Connor’s voice drops low again, his eyes deadly serious. “Only I get this. From you.”

“Always, Connor.”

Connor stretches up to his full height, that smirk breaking out into a smile could rival the rising sun.

“Then, Lieutenant Anderson,” he murmurs against Hank’s lips. “I believe I’m quite content to be  _ yours.” _


End file.
